Harvest of Secrets

by Ellen Crosby

  I shook my head in disbelief. She wasn’t going to let it go. “I went to see Miguel Otero to ask him to help with the harvest,” I said, enunciating each word as if I were talking to someone who had difficulty understanding English. “And I’m done answering your questions and responding to your silly accusations. You need to leave. Now. You’re finished here.”

  She sat back in her chair as if I’d just physically struck her and her mouth fell open in a big, round O of surprise. “Are you … are you firing me?”

  “I am. You can come back tomorrow and pack up your things. Frankie will give you your final check. But right now I want you to leave.”

  In one fluid move, she got up, reached for her purse, slid her feet into sandals, and moved around her desk. Before she got to the door I stepped back and opened it. She breezed by without a sidelong glance, but I caught the scent of her perfume as she brushed past me, head erect, perfect posture. Something seductive and sensuous.

  I heard the front door to the villa slam with a vicious force a moment later and leaned against the door to her office once again as though I needed something to prop me up.

  What the hell had just happened? A jealous, seething rant by yet another of Jean-Claude’s castoffs. I would have to tell Frankie I’d fired Nikki, who she loved practically as a daughter. Did she know about this dark, possessive side of Nikki’s character?

  Half an hour ago I would have said Nikki was an unfortunate casualty in the sordid drama surrounding the murder of Jean-Claude de Merignac. Now I wondered whether she could possibly be a killer … and I had just let her walk out of here.

  Sixteen

  I called Quinn once I finally calmed down after Nikki had stormed out of the villa. The secrets I’d been keeping these last few days were starting to leak out in all the wrong ways and places—the lies, avoidance, deceptions—until I knew I couldn’t keep them to myself any longer without tearing a hole through the heart of my relationship with him. It was time to tell him about David and about what I’d just learned from Thelma about Susanna Montgomery.

  “Before you say anything,” I said when he answered, “please hear me out. There are … things … I need to tell you. The red ATV is out in front of the villa. I also want to show you something, so can you meet me there in five minutes?”

  “Does this have anything to do with why you disappeared for half the afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in three minutes.”

  I was waiting in the ATV when he sprinted across the courtyard and ran down the steps to join me. The Journal of John Woolman lay on the seat next to me.

  “Want me to drive?” he asked.

  “I know where we’re going.”

  “Good point,” he said and climbed into the passenger seat. “Is this your book?” He picked up The Journal of John Woolman.

  “It belonged to Susanna Montgomery,” I said and slid the gearshift into drive. “Thelma gave it to me.”

  “Thelma? What was she doing with a book that belonged to Susanna Montgomery?” He set it back down.

  “That’s part of what I want to explain to you. Is everything okay in the barrel room?”

  “No,” he said. “Most definitely not. Antonio’s so distracted I have to repeat everything at least twice and Benny is going to chain-smoke himself into getting lung cancer. Jesús just looks nervous and doesn’t crack jokes anymore, so it’s pretty tense at the moment. They’re all worried about Miguel.”

  “Miguel didn’t kill Jean-Claude,” I said. “And I just fired Nikki.”

  “You did what?”

  I told him what happened. “Bobby seems to be focusing on women who had a romantic relationship with Jean-Claude.”

  “And Nikki’s one of his suspects? Our sweet little Nikki?”

  “Yup. And the sweetness might only be skin-deep.”

  “There’s also Robyn, if Bobby’s keeping a list,” he said. “And Dominique.”

  “Dominique was not in a romantic relationship with Jean-Claude,” I said, snapping at him. “Their affair happened decades ago. You can’t count her any more than you can count me.”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa. I surrender. Don’t bite my head off, okay? It’s just that she does have a motive, don’t you agree? Come on, Lucie, even if she is your cousin, look at it from Bobby’s viewpoint.”

  “She didn’t kill Jean-Claude, Quinn.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Truce. Moving on.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. It’s been a hell of a few days,” he said, as I turned onto the rutted path that led into the woods and the site for Eli’s house. “This is the way to Eli’s new place,” he said. “Is that where we’re going?”

  I nodded and he said, “Why?”

  “I want to show you the cabin he found in the woods this morning,” I said. “It’s connected to Susanna Montgomery and this book. At least, I believe it is.”

  I stopped the ATV outside the stand of trees—including the one with the elbow bend in the trunk—where Eli and I had parked this morning.

  “Come on.” I picked up the book. “We’ll talk on the way.”

  It was easier and quicker this time to make our way to the falling-down cabin since Eli and I had already beaten a path through the underbrush. I told Quinn what Thelma had told me about Susanna falling in love with an African-American man and planning to flee to New York to marry him.

  “What does that have to do with this place you’re going to show me?” Quinn asked.

  “I wanted to see it again for myself, plus I want you to see it, too. I’d like to know if you agree with my theory.”

  We stopped walking. The cabin was still hidden by a screen of deciduous trees, scrubby pines, and wild holly bushes, but now I knew where it was.

  “Here we are,” I said to Quinn.

  “What are you talking about? We’re in the middle of the woods.”

  I opened the back flyleaf of Susanna’s book and showed Quinn the map. “It’s a map of Highland Farm.” I pointed out the landmarks and then showed him the cabin. “And this place here—this little box in the corner with the X through it—is what’s right in front of us. On the other side of those trees and bushes. I think the cabin Eli found could have been a stop on the Underground Railroad.”

  “There’s a cabin on the other side of those trees and bushes?”

  The sun had gradually disappeared behind banks of heavy clouds that had moved in during the afternoon so now there were no shadows, just thick gray light that was beginning to make it difficult to read the map. Before long it would be too dusky to see anything and the trees and bushes would fade into insubstantial shapes in the autumn twilight.

  “Absolutely sure. I’ll show you,” I said. “Follow me.”

  I was a couple of steps ahead of Quinn when something—no, someone—hurtled through the bushes, broadsiding me and knocking me over. Susanna’s book and my cane flew out of my hands and I went down hard on my back.

  A few feet away, I heard a man say “Ouf,” as he scrambled to recover from our encounter. He was gone in a flash.

  “Quinn!” I yelled when I could catch my breath. “Stop him!”

  I heard the cracking of branches breaking, followed by a groan and cursing from Quinn.

  “Dammit. Too late. I missed him. He’s gone.”

  He was at my side a moment later. “Are you okay?” He helped me up.

  I nodded. “That was Miguel. He was hiding in the cabin again. He’s here. Somewhere in the woods. Let’s find him before he gets away.”

  “He already got away. And we aren’t going to find him in the dark, Lucie. Nor can we go chasing after him. He could be anywhere.”

  At least he didn’t say “and you can’t run.”

  “We can at least talk to him,” I said. “Damn. My cane. He knocked it out of my hand.”

  “It’s here.” He picked it up and handed it to me. “Lucky it didn’t snap in two.”

  “Thank y
ou, I … oh, no. Susanna’s book. That’s gone, too.”

  “Hang on.” Quinn pulled out his phone and found the flashlight on it. After a moment he said, “It’s here. It’s caught in some bushes. A bit worse for the wear, unfortunately. I think the cover might be starting to come apart from the binding.”

  He handed me the book and I saw what he meant. “Maybe I can fix it. Come on. Let’s go. Miguel got more of a head start while we’ve been messing around here.”

  Quinn followed me to a spot in a small clearing. “Don’t tell me you plan to holler at him to come out and show himself like this is some adult version of hide-and-seek? Do you really think that’s going to work?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Within a couple of minutes we had both yelled ourselves hoarse.

  “He’s not coming,” Quinn said.

  I cleared my throat and said in my loudest voice, “Miguel Otero, show yourself. Please. We know you’re in the woods and so does Detective Noland. I’ve talked to him and he doesn’t believe you killed Jean-Claude de Merignac. He thinks it was a woman and that maybe you heard something that will help with his investigation. You’re not under arrest and Isabella needs you. All you have to do is talk to Detective Noland, tell him what you know. You have my word that nothing is going to happen to you. Palabra de Díos.”

  I stopped talking and held my breath, listening to the evening sounds of the woods and the faded metallic thrumming of the cicadas. Quinn put his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before it’s pitch dark. You tried. He’s not coming.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Just one more minute.”

  He emerged from a thicket of trees and bushes as we were about to leave, a dark form separating itself from the gray-black woods and moving quickly toward us.

  “Miguel?”

  “Sí.” He waved a hand, part salute, part surrender. “Are you okay, Lucie? I’m sorry I ran into you. I thought you guys were somebody else.”

  ICE or a couple of deputies from the Sheriff’s Office. That’s who he thought we were. He looked hollow-eyed and apprehensive, still wearing the wine-stained T-shirt and jeans he’d had on two nights ago when Quinn and I saw him at Toby and Robyn’s. It seemed like an eternity had passed since then.

  “I’m fine. It’s good to see you, Miguel,” I said. “Come on. You must be famished and ready to get home to Isabella. Let’s get out of here.”

  He sat on the flatbed trailer that was hitched to the ATV as Quinn drove us back to the vineyard and I called Bobby. Then I handed my phone to Miguel, whose phone had died, so he could call Isabella and, finally, Antonio. The guys—Antonio, Benny, and Jesús—were waiting as we pulled up in front of the villa five minutes later. Miguel leapt down and Antonio grabbed him in a bear hug, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Antonio caught my eye and gave me a tiny nod of acknowledgement. I knew then that he would keep his end of the bargain since I had kept mine. There would be no workers’ strike at Montgomery Estate Vineyard.

  Miguel wanted Quinn and me to be present when Bobby showed up to question him half an hour later in the villa. At first I thought Bobby was going to refuse since it was against his policy to speak to a witness with other people around, but eventually he relented when it became clear he’d get more information out of Miguel—especially with Quinn as a translator—if we were there. Antonio, Jesús, and Benny, however, were told to wait outside in the courtyard.

  Bobby looked almost as haggard as Miguel did, but he was dressed in a dark gray suit, which was unusual for him.

  “You’ve been somewhere,” Quinn said while we waited for Miguel, who was sitting at the bar, to finish a sandwich and a soft drink that I’d brought him from the kitchen.

  Bobby moved out of Miguel’s earshot.

  “Dulles Airport and then Salamander Resort by way of the morgue,” he said in a low voice. “Escorting the victim’s father to make a positive ID on his son, plus I had to ask him a few questions. It’s my least favorite part of the job, especially when we haven’t caught the killer.”

  “You were with Armand de Merignac just now?” I said.

  “The tenth Baron de Merignac himself. He’s … uh, quite impressive. The kind of guy who seems like he takes no prisoners. And definitely rich. I bet just one of his shoes cost more than every item of clothing I own put together. Of course you probably already know that since he’s an old family friend.”

  “Our families have known each other in France for generations, but I haven’t spoken to Armand—Baron de Merignac—in years. How’s he doing?”

  “As well as could be expected, considering he just lost his only son. Though I gather they weren’t especially close.” He glanced at Miguel who crumpled up the paper napkin I’d given him and threw it on his plate. “Looks like Miguel’s done eating so we can get this show on the road.” He raised his voice. “You ready, Miguel?”

  Miguel swung around on his bar stool so he faced us. “I am. Thanks for the food, Lucie. It was great.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you want anything else?”

  “Some water, please.” I got a bottle of chilled water out of the refrigerator behind the bar and gave it to him. Bobby flipped open a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook and pulled a pen out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, sitting down on the bar stool next to Miguel.

  “Okay,” he said. “I want you to tell me what happened, what you know about yesterday morning. Start at the beginning.”

  In spite of everything that had taken place over the past thirty-six hours, I had a feeling Miguel was glad to get this off his chest, especially now that he realized he wasn’t the number one suspect in the murder of Jean-Claude de Merignac. He told Bobby he’d shown up at the La Vigne barrel room around eight o’clock in the morning and discovered Jean-Claude was already there. Almost immediately the two of them had words over Miguel’s missing documents.

  “He said he had no idea what happened to my papers and it was my fault for leaving them in my car. I smelled alcohol on his breath,” Miguel said. “So I left and went to the vineyard to get away from him. So I could calm down—un poco más tranquilo, you know?”

  Bobby’s eyebrows went up. “Alcohol on his breath at eight A.M.? Was he drunk?”

  “Not drunk, but he’d been drinking. Maybe he was doing some barrel sampling. I didn’t ask.”

  Bobby let that go, but it was the first I’d heard of Jean-Claude having a little tipple of his own wine for breakfast. It was an occupational hazard in our business. Quinn and I were constantly vigilant about how much each of us drank.

  “Then what happened?” Bobby asked.

  “I came back when I realized I didn’t have my secateurs. I was so mad at Jean-Claude that I’d forgotten to take them with me when I left earlier.”

  “What time would that be?” Bobby looked up from his notebook. “When you came back the second time?”

  “I don’t know. I think around nine. Maybe a little later.”

  “Can you be any more specific than around nine?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t check. But I think it was nine. A couple of the guys who work in the fields were just getting in.”

  “All right, that helps. So, you came back to the winery, probably around nine o’clock. Then what?”

  “I drove up and parked my car behind the barrel room. It should still be there where I left it. Then I walked over to the crush pad and opened the door to the barrel room. That’s when I heard Jean-Claude arguing with a woman.” Miguel took a swig of water. “They were angry, really angry. Both of them.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know. They were speaking French. And they were shouting.”

  Neither Quinn nor I looked at each other and Bobby seemed completely unfazed. Nikki. Robyn. Dominique.

  Dominique was the only one among those three whom I knew for sure spoke fluent French. But if Dominique was shouting at Jean-Claude, it didn’t necessarily mean that she
’d murdered him in anger afterward, stabbing him with Miguel’s secateurs … did it?

  “You didn’t pick up a word that sounded familiar?” Bobby was saying. “Something? A name, maybe? Could you recognize this woman’s voice if you heard it again?”

  “Sorry. Nothing. They were in Jean-Claude’s office with the door closed so the voices were…” He looked at Quinn and me. “Apagados. Sorry, I don’t remember the word in English.”

  “Muffled,” Quinn said.

  “That’s right. Muffled.”

  “Okay. Then what happened?”

  Miguel shrugged. “I didn’t want any part of what was going on with the boss and his lady-friend, you know? So I left.”

  “Without your secateurs.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jean-Claude was alive when you left the wine cellar?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He shrugged. “Back to the vineyard. Where else?”

  “Why did you run?”

  Miguel looked uncomfortable. “One of the guys found me and told me what happened. Jean-Claude was dead and you guys found my secateurs with blood on them. I have no papers and everyone knew Jean-Claude and I were fighting the day before he died.” He straightened up and looked Bobby in the eye. “If you were me, what would you do?”

  Bobby gave him a severe look. “I would have cooperated with us. That’s what I would have done. Instead you went on the lam, as if you had something to hide.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miguel said. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? And I’m free to go, right?”

  Bobby closed his notebook. “Yes. You can go. If you think of anything else…” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, extracted a business card, and handed it to Miguel. “Call this number. Anytime.”

  “Okay.” Miguel slid off the bar stool. “I need to get home. The baby is due any day now.” He nodded at all of us. “Thanks, Lucie. Quinn. Good night, Detective.”

  Quinn left with Miguel, saying he wanted to lock up the barrel room for the night and that he’d meet me at home. I asked Bobby if he could stick around for a moment.